


Spark

by thirtypercent



Series: Something Ventured [3]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Angst, Blow Jobs, Boys Kissing, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Explicit Sexual Content, Fluff and Angst, Frottage, Hand Jobs, M/M, Post Reichenbach, Sherlock Being Sherlock, Sherlock approaches a relationship about the way you'd expect, Slash, emotions are hard
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-12
Updated: 2013-06-12
Packaged: 2017-12-14 19:11:43
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,987
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/840377
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thirtypercent/pseuds/thirtypercent
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>The steady beat of Sherlock’s heart against John’s back is soothing, and despite his scepticism, the tension in his muscles starts to abate for the first time all day. The room is quiet and dark, the sound of passing cars just a whisper on the edge of his hearing.</i>
</p><p> </p><p>Sherlock tries.</p><p>Continuation of <a href="http://archiveofourown.org/works/799527">Pyrrhic Victory</a> and <a href="http://archiveofourown.org/works/812210">From Ashes</a>, but can be read as a standalone.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Spark

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks once again to Trixxx and Interrosand for laser eyes and general awesomeness. And to airynothing for the sanity check. :D

John Watson thinks he may be coming apart at the seams.

 

He survived Afghanistan, he survived Sherlock’s death, but he may not survive Sherlock’s resurrection.

 

Sometimes he’s so happy it’s like a pulsing living _thing_ in his chest. His heart beats too fast and he vibrates with energy and he can’t keep it to himself: he can feel it leaking out of him when he watches Sherlock from across a crime scene, when they kiss, when they fuck.

 

Then without warning, his mood collapses in on itself and he can barely move. He’s not _sad_. Why would he be? Everything is _ fine_. Just like it used to be, in fact. But his limbs turn heavy and his thoughts move like treacle and he’ll sit on the bed with his hands braced on his knees, staring at the floor for ten, twenty, thirty minutes at a time, listening to his watch tick and working up the energy to shower, and dress, and go into surgery and pretend to be a reasonable human being.

 

But the anger is the worst. He’s always been even-keeled: the calm one who’d balance out Harry’s recklessness and unpredictable moods. But now: sometimes he wants to break things, crush them under his heel, injure and cause pain. When he corners a suspect and nearly loses control after the first punch, he scares himself.

 

And Sherlock. That bloody git. Just continuing on as if nothing had ever happened: spinning theories and pulling conclusions out of thin air with the same brilliant precision as always.

 

They’d even moved back to Baker Street, and John doesn’t know whether that makes him want to laugh or cry.

 

And then this morning: the final straw. He’d woken up and the limp was back. His _bloody useless fucking traitor leg_ couldn’t be bothered to be a _functional goddamn limb_.

 

He’d hobbled out of the downstairs bedroom, fists clenched, to be greeted with Sherlock’s austere profile as he hunched over his microscope. Dressing gown coming loose at the neck, curls damp and tousled from his shower, looking beautiful and heartbreaking and completely utterly _impassive_.

 

Sherlock had raised an eyebrow without even a glance in John’s direction. “Why are you _limping_ again?” The thread of disdain in his voice set something boiling in John’s gut, and his hands started to shake and his breath turned shallow and he was filled with a blind incoherent _rage_ he couldn’t hope to explain.

 

With only a brief stop in the bedroom for trousers, shoes, and a jumper, he’d stumbled down the stairs and out the front door without a word to Sherlock.

 

***

 

Now, he can barely see the pavement in front of him: he’s always thought “seeing red” was a figure of speech before, but he may have to reevaluate that belief in light of new evidence. Pain shoots up his leg with every step and distantly he worries it might just collapse underneath him, but he doesn’t slow down.

 

He’s been walking for maybe five minutes when he hears clipped footsteps behind him, catching up to him with humiliating ease. He refuses to turn around, and does his best to speed up, but he’s really at top speed already.

 

“If you’re going to storm out of the flat to have a strop, at least use your cane.” Sherlock’s voice is droll.

 

John freezes in his directionless crusade and spins on a heel. Sherlock grips John’s cane lightly, swinging it casually as he raises his eyebrows at John.

 

John is seized by the sudden urge to snatch it from his hands and thwack him with it until he stops looking so damn superior.

  
Instead, he clenches his fist and inhales, spins on his heel again, and continues walking, gait less even than before. “Leave me alone, Sherlock.”

 

Sherlock dogs his heels like a bloody terrier. “Why does this even bother you? It’s just psychosomatic -- it’ll go away again. Likely after our next high-speed pursuit.” John doesn’t have to turn his head to know Sherlock’s eyes are gleaming at the thought.

 

John’s mouth seems to be moving ahead of his brain, now. “Maybe it bothers me, Sherlock, because apparently you have more control over my _leg_ and my _head_ and my _life_ than I do. Because you just... change everything, _again_ , and you just... go on like it’s nothing!”

 

“John, you’re being ridiculous.”

 

John spins on his heel again. “Well excuse me, but I’m _human_ , not a _sociopath_ , and most of us can’t just... turn it on and off like a bloody faucet!”

 

John sees a flash of something injured in those pale eyes, but then the bored look is back. “Well. Your little... display doesn’t seem to be getting you anywhere, does it?”

 

John drops his gaze to the pavement and his voice goes quiet. “We can’t all be as logicalas you.”

 

For once, Sherlock doesn’t deploy a pithy reply with devastating precision.

 

John snatches his cane from Sherlock’s loose grip. “Please don’t follow me.”

 

He continues his journey down the pavement without a backward glance. Sherlock doesn’t follow.

 

 

***

 

 

Between his bad leg and lack of a wallet, John’s options to keep himself occupied are limited, but he doesn’t trust himself to go home, yet.

 

He spends the morning in the park, and the afternoon staring out the window of a cafe, nursing the small coffee he’d purchased with coins he’d scrounged up from his trouser pockets.

 

He watches passers-by for hours. He’s spent enough time around Sherlock to recognise the signs of the more common deceptions: this man is meeting an illicit lover, that woman is skint but trying to keep up appearances around her posh friends, those teens skived off from school to go to the cinema instead.

 

But for all his people-watching, he’s no closer to feeling normal than he was this morning. He can’t quite seem to catch hold of the man he used to be, and the more he tries, the less the pieces seem to fit together.

 

The anger gradually drains out of him, until he’s left exhausted and feeling more than a little ridiculous. Having a row out on the pavement in front of the morning commuter crowd like a petulant teen. He’s supposed to be a grown man -- nearly middle-aged, at that.

 

Yes, Sherlock was being a git, but that’s what he does. John replays his own words in his head, remembers that flash of hurt in Sherlock’s eyes, and cringes. _You prat._

 

He sighs and picks up his coat as he stands, wincing at the stiffness in his leg. Time to go home.

 

 

***

 

 

The flat is still and dark when John returns.

 

For a moment he thinks Sherlock is out, and he sighs, wondering whether he’s relieved or disappointed.

 

But then Sherlock’s voice wells up from the darkened room, and John catches sight of him, barely illuminated by the light trickling in from the streetlamps. He’s sitting in John’s armchair, elbows propped on the arms, fingers laced under his chin. He seems lost in thought, and doesn’t look at John as he starts to speak, rapid and precise.

 

“The witness we visited in hospital yesterday. He was in for fractured ribs and a punctured lung, true, but there was evidence of suicide attempts, at least two, in the last nine months. Scars on his wrists: he tried to hide them from us, but hospital gowns do not forgive many sins.

 

“He started at the sound of the lunch trolley in the hall, reached for a weapon he no longer carries, pulled up his posture when you walked in the room: he recognised your rank right away. So: former military man, like yourself. Invalided due to an amputated foot, now can’t find work since his only other job was in manual labor.

 

“No relationship, no job, friends who don’t understand. You would’ve noticed, of course: you know the signs. You would have... sympathised.

 

“Then when I hit my head chasing the suspect onto the fire escape: it was a minor thing, really, barely slowed us down at all. But there was blood -- the scalp always does bleed excessively -- and it did catch your eye. Elevated heart rate, respiration, dilated pupils: classic fight-or-flight response. I saw, but... I didn’t observe.”

 

At that, Sherlock sighs.

 

John frowns. “So... what’s all this then? I thought we solved the case.”

 

Sherlock scowls. “I’ve deduced why you had nightmares last night and the limp today, _obviously_. ”

 

“Oh. Right. That’s... uh, impressive.”

 

Sherlock jumps to his feet and strides toward John with purpose. He places a hand between John’s shoulder blades and propels him toward the bedroom.

 

“What are you doing?”

 

“Quiet.”

 

“Sherlock, I could really use a cuppa, and I haven’t eaten all day --”

 

“There’s Thai in the fridge for afterwards.”

 

“There’s no Thai in the fridge. There was that curry that had gone off, but I binned it. Well, and the livers, but those don’t really count as food --”

 

“I ordered it, obviously. ”

 

Once they reach the bedroom, Sherlock begins undressing him with oddly impersonal efficiency.

 

“Sherlock, I don’t think now is the time...”

 

“John. This isn’t about sex.” Once he’s got John down to a t-shirt and pants, he strips off his own dressing gown and pulls John toward the bed.

 

He situates John on his side, then grabs the duvet and pulls it up around them as he climbs into bed. He presses his front to John’s back, sliding one arm under John’s neck and using the other to tuck the duvet tightly around John before hooking a foot around John’s ankles.

 

“Okay. What in god’s name are you doing? Is this an experiment?”

 

Sherlock fusses with the blankets a bit before answering, his voice oddly diffident. “Primates find a certain amount of... restriction of movement soothing. It’s simple biology.”

 

John pauses, considers questioning the applicability in humans with PTSD, and decides against it. “Most people just hug.”

 

Sherlock huffs, his breath gusting against the nape of John’s neck. “Boring.”

 

“Just -- loosen the duvet, will you? I don’t want to suffocate in here.”

 

Sherlock obliges, then wraps his arm around John’s waist again, but this time he slides his palm under John’s t-shirt and up his torso to splay across his chest.

 

The steady beat of Sherlock’s heart against John’s back _is_ soothing, and despite his scepticism, the tension in his muscles starts to abate for the first time all day. The room is quiet and dark, the sound of passing cars just a whisper on the edge of his hearing. John matches his breaths to the rise and fall of Sherlock’s chest and lets his eyes drift shut.

 

“It _is_ working.” Sherlock sounds as pleased as the time he successfully cultivated belladonna in the loo.

 

John is tempted to disagree out of sheer bloody-mindedness, but instead he sighs. “Sherlock... what I said earlier. I didn’t really mean --”

 

“Stop. Don’t finish that sentence.” The room is silent for long moments before Sherlock speaks again. “I should have... observed. I should have anticipated and taken suitable precautions.”

 

“Oh? What would you have done about it, then?”

 

“Gone to bed with you, obviously. You rarely have nightmares when I’m present, and if you do, I just place my hand here and you calm down in approximately thirty seconds.” He rubs his thumb over John’s chest.

 

John’s heartbeat stutters. “I... didn’t know you were doing that.”

 

Sherlock’s voice is low and rough in his ear. “Why would you? You were asleep.”

 

It’s like finding out everything he knew was just slightly askew. He has no idea what to say.

 

Sherlock buries his nose in John’s hair and inhales deeply, then sighs John’s name and presses an open-mouthed kiss to the nape of his neck.

 

John shivers and tries to turn to face Sherlock, but Sherlock holds him in place.

 

“Wait -- you know. You _should_ know.” Sherlock rubs his lips over John’s neck again and sighs. “I can’t turn it on and off. Not with you.”

 

“Sherlock, I know... what I said before, that wasn’t on, I just --”

 

“I’ve... tried.” He brushes his lips over the shell of John’s ear, and a thread of frustration enters his voice. “But _you_. You’re always in my head. Are you safe? Are you happy? Do you want me as much as I want you?”

 

He slides his hand down to John’s hip and punctuates his words with a shallow thrust. He’s half-hard and John groans.

 

Sherlock slides his hand back to John’s stomach. “Tell me it’s the same for you.”

 

“God, yes. Always.” His words sound breathless even to his own ears.

 

Sherlock nuzzles at John’s neck and slides hishand down to cup John’s rapidly growing erection. “Thank god.”

 

John huffs out a choked laugh. “You don’t believe in god.”

 

Sherlock and traces the line of John’s cock through his pants with one long index finger. “You... seem to be the exception in all things.”

 

John’s breath hitches and his hips tilt forward for more.

 

Sherlock pulls his cock through the opening in his pants and runs his thumb experimentally along the underside. He presses his hips to John’s arse, and he’s hard, now, and hot -- even through two layers of cotton.

 

John groans. “Don’t tease me.”

 

Sherlock doesn’t answer, but he hums low and deep in John’s ear. Then he’s removing his hand and leaning away, and John bites back a whimper at the loss of contact.

 

Sherlock fumbles with the bottle of lube on the bedside table, and then he’s back. The hot line of his body pressed against John’s back, the shocking cold of the lube as he wraps his fingers around John’s cock and strokes long and slow: pleasure pools sudden and heavy in John’s spine, and he makes a sound he’s sure is embarrassing.

 

Sherlock still has his foot hooked over John’s legs, and the thick ridge of his cock presses against the cleft of John’s arse with every stroke. Sherlock sucks at the sensitive skin behind John’s ear and moans, and John is only dimly aware of the desperate sounds falling out of his own mouth.

 

John turns his head as best he can at this angle, and tangles his fingers into Sherlock’s hair. “Kiss me,” he pants.

 

And then Sherlock is leaning forward to growl into his mouth, sinking his tongue deep in time with his strokes along John’s throbbing cock, sucking on his tongue and biting at his lip.

 

John gasps and feels his cock grow impossibly harder, hips arching helplessly as he comes, shuddering and gasping into Sherlock’s mouth.

 

He shivers as Sherlock releases his cock with one last stroke. Sherlock’s hand shakes as it slides up to grip John’s hip, and tightens convulsively as he makes one last aborted thrust. His voice is rough and John can feel it in his chest as much as hear it. “ _John_.”

 

John is panting as if he’d just sprinted a mile but he doesn’t wait to catch his breath. He turns and leans into Sherlock, tipping him onto his back and planting his elbows on either side of Sherlock’s head and kisses him, deep and hot.

 

Sherlock groans and slides his foot up John’s calf, tugging on his hips to bring their bodies together, whimpering as John’s half-hard cock slides along Sherlock’s erection.

 

John slides down to mouth at Sherlock’s neck, biting at his pulse point and sucking at the crook of his neck. “God, Sherlock, you...”

 

He slides further down Sherlock’s body, evading the hands that try to pull him closer. He tugs at Sherlock’s pyjama bottoms until they’re down just far enough to expose Sherlock’s cock, flushed and hard and slick with his own pre-come.

 

Sherlock, desperate for him. _Yes_.

 

He wraps his fingers around the base and licks up the shaft, once, and then sinks down on Sherlock’s cock until he can feel the head pressing against the back of his throat. Sherlock’s hips jerk and he cries out, hands skittering over John’s shoulders and threading through his hair.

 

John slides up, sucking lightly as he flicks his tongue along the sensitive spot just below the head. He presses one hand to Sherlock’s hip to keep him still and works his cock with every skill he’s learned over the past few months. He doesn’t want this to last -- he wants Sherlock desperate and frantic and coming hard in his mouth _now_.

 

Sherlock is sobbing his name with every flick of his tongue, and John moans as Sherlock’s cock swells in his mouth.

 

“ _John... John_.” And then he’s coming, cock pulsing in John’s mouth as he grips John’s shoulder with bruising force, his hips nearly lifting John off the bed.

 

John holds on, slowing his motions until Sherlock’s muscles go lax and his fingers slip off John’s shoulder. John slides his mouth off Sherlock’s cock and feels it twitch one last time as he swallows carefully.

 

His own movements are uncoordinated as he crawls back up the bed. Sherlock grabs hold of his hips and tugs until John’s sprawled half on top of him, and then he slides his hand up into John’s hair and captures his mouth in a messy kiss, tongue sliding slick and warm.

 

After long moments John groans and collapses into Sherlock’s shoulder, releasing his breath on a long sigh. “Well.”

 

Sherlock’s breath is no steadier. “Quite.”

 

John’s stomach belatedly makes its presence known, growling loudly into the silence. “Apparently, I’m starving.”

 

Sherlock yawns. “So am I.”

 

“I thought you already ate takeaway.”

 

“No, that’s for you, of course. You didn’t have your wallet.”

 

John’s shocked into silence for a moment, and then he smiles into Sherlock’s skin. “Who knew you could be so damn solicitous?”

 

Sherlock grumbles even as he threads his fingers through John’s hair. “Don’t get used to it.”

 

“Well, sure. Wouldn’t want to upset the balance of the universe.”

 

For the first time in a long while, John’s skin feels like it may fit him again after all.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading! I know people are sick to death of Post-Reichenbach stories, but I just had to get this out of my head. :)


End file.
